


if I could reach out to you

by pippuri



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F, s6 frm delia's pov, slightly slightly au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25195609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippuri/pseuds/pippuri
Summary: but there is something different about being able to just drop everything and go to her -- just knowing you could walk to the train station and be with her if you needed.you can’t do that anymore.///season six, delia pining for patsy
Relationships: Delia Busby/Patsy Mount
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	if I could reach out to you

**Author's Note:**

> i have an Incredible amount of work to do so ofc i've just been thinking about call the midwife

_ "I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against /  _ _ The want of you; /  _ _ Of squeezing it into little inkdrops, /  _ _ And posting it." _

_-Amy Lowell_

/ /

You hadn’t quite realised how quiet Nonnatus House would be without Patsy. You suppose you had taken for granted being able to sit next to her on the small sofa in front of the TV, knees barely touching, being able to wait up for her to come back from a late night delivery, with hot chocolate and biscuits in the kitchen, being able to simply smile at her across the table. 

You’ve done this before -- depending on early morning phone calls, and hastily written notes left with the acting Sister, and sometimes the distance across London, across England, feels just as far as Hong Kong. But there is something different about being able to just drop everything and go to her -- just knowing you could walk to the train station and be with her if you needed. 

You can’t do that anymore. 

/ 

Really, the only thing keeping you from completely falling apart is the constant studying Phyllis makes you put in for your midwifery training. You know she’s so insistent on it because she can see the way you helplessly flip through the mail every evening, desperate for any word from Patsy. It’s comforting, not having to keep her a secret from everyone. 

The night you returned Phyllis’s book of Spanish poetry, she told you a story from her childhood, of one perfect summer she spent with her great-aunt in Hartlepool when she was only eight or nine. You listen politely, not sure of why she’s telling you this, until she mentions her great-aunt’s  _ companion _ , and looks at you in a pointed way. 

“Auntie Harriett died the next summer, but I always kept in touch with Susannah. She invited me to spend the summer with her every year until the war, but my mother found it improper. She was the kindest person I knew.”

She gently takes the book from you, and slips it into the top drawer of the nightstand. You quite suddenly feel like you’re going to cry again -- not just for Patsy, but for this Susannah you’ve never met. 

/

You write Patsy a letter almost every morning. They’re boring, you’re sure, and repetitive and you can never write what you want to ( _ I miss you, I love you, please come home _ ), but the ache that settled deep in your stomach eases a little every time you slide a letter into the postbox. Trixie gives you a funny look when you have to ask her to pick up some stamps for the third time -- the shops are almost always shut when you arrive home from your shifts. 

You’re sure she suspects you’re writing to a boyfriend, and you don’t really do anything to convince her otherwise. She’s noticed how mopey you’ve been, and she drops pointed remarks into conversation about times she’s had arguments with her various boyfriends and how it  _ always _ has worked out in the end. 

It’s not as reassuring as she thinks it is. 

/

“Where do you always go on your nights off?” Barbara asks you one evening, halfway through curling her hair for yet  _ another _ date with Tom. “Trixie and I wanted to invite you to the cinema last weekend, but you weren’t in your room when I knocked.” 

You freeze up, desperately trying to think of a reasonable excuse. You settle on “Having a drink with some friends from the London,” which isn't completely a lie. You  _ were _ having a drink, but not with friends, and certainly not with girls from the London. 

“You’ll have to invite Trixie next time,” Barbara says. “Introduce her to some of your doctor friends.”

Gateway’s is nowhere near as fun without Patsy by your side, but it’s close to the only place you’ve found that you can voice the worries that are growing stronger by the day. It’s been nearly seven weeks, and you’ve received nothing. Not a letter, not a card, not even something as dated and old-fashioned as a telegram. You wouldn’t have even known she had arrived had you not seen the notice in the paper that the ship she departed on was beginning its trip back to London. 

You’ve spent almost every night off you’ve had there, slowly getting tipsier and tipsier while talking about Patsy to any girl who comes up to you. After an hour or so, when it's clear you’re not planning on taking any of the other girls home with you, they leave you alone. The poor bartender, a perfectly lovely Irish girl, has learned more about your life in the last few weeks than any of the people you consider to be your closest friends. You tell her that, and she looks at you with something you think is pity.

She makes you a cup of coffee, and sends you in a taxi home at the end of the night. You have to be careful to not step on the creaking stair, and to avoid the nun sitting up on call by the telephone. You’re so used to sneaking around for Patsy, that it feels almost silly to be hiding a secret so small as being drunk. 

/

You pass your midwifery certification exams with flying colors. Trixie and Barbara burst into your room with streamers, and practically drag you down to the sitting room. It’s decorated like you’ve seen the community centre decked out for holiday, and you think you recognize some paper flowers from the May Day fête Barbara had organised. 

There’s a cake, and glasses of lemonade, and you can’t help but smile. It’s one of the happiest afternoons you’ve had in a while, and it’s only happier when Sister Julienne takes you into her office after. 

“I know you’ve been dedicated to the London,” she says, motioning for you to sit in the chair across from her desk, “but with Nurse Mount’s absence, and your familiarity with our work, I thought you may be interested in taking her place.” 

She must see the look that crosses your face, and she adds “Temporarily, of course. Until Nurse Mount may rejoin us.” 

It’s not what you were expecting -- you had been hoping to be reassigned to the maternity ward of the London, but the Matron in charge of obstetrics had neither responded to your letter, nor mentioned anything to your current supervisor. It’s an easy decision to make, you realise. 

“I’ve admired your work for so long, Sister Julienne, it would be an honour to take it on myself,” you answer and she smiles at you warmly. 

“There’s spare uniforms in the cupboard on the landing,” she says. “Barbara can help with alterations, I’m sure.”

/

You write Patsy to tell her. She doesn’t reply. 

/ 

Just when you’ve nearly given up hope, when you’ve resigned yourself to living the rest of your life alone and surrounded by nuns, she comes back. You’re furious at first, and you’re not sure if you want to yell or kiss her. 

“I didn’t know,” you tell her, inches away from crying. “I didn’t know you were coming back.” 

She’s insistent when she replies, and she’s still holding your hand. “I did. I always did,” and she looks so lost that it’s like the anger you were full of just seconds ago melts away. 

You kiss her. 

/

It’s easy to sneak her into your bedroom -- the entire house is full of excitement over Barbara’s wedding that no one notices you’re gone. You sit cross-legged on your bed, and she’s perched on your dresser, her heels hitting the bottom drawer. 

“I wrote you,” you say, “I wrote you every day.” You mean to sound angry, but it comes out thin and sad, not even sounding like your voice at all. 

“I know,” she whispers. She seems unable to look you in the eye, and she keeps bouncing the heel of her boot off the dresser. “I read them all, Deels, a hundred times. They were 一” She stumbles over her words, swallows hard, and keeps talking. “They were really the only thing keeping me going.” 

She reaches down, and pulls open your top drawer to pull out the cigarettes and matches you keep there. You don’t smoke, you never have, but you keep them there for her. Her hands are trembling as she tries to light it.

“I haven’t spent that much time with him since I was little,” she continues, still shaking. “It was like he never -- never moved past the war. It was my childhood home, did I tell you that?”

You shake your head. 

“It was a  _ shrine _ , Deels, a shrine to my mother and sister. I couldn’t turn a corner without being suddenly thrown back fifteen years. I think he felt guilty, that he wasn’t with them at the end. It was his way of remembering them, but 一 but I  _ was _ . I didn’t need the photos, or clothing, or anything to remember them. I just have to shut my eyes and 一 ” Her voice trails off, and she takes a long drag on the cigarette. “I’m sorry I didn’t write, Deels. I’m so sorry.” 

She finally looks up, and you motion for her to join you. She’s fully dressed, her coat still draped over her shoulders, but she practically collapses on the bed. You twist your fingers into her hair. It’s soft, without the gallons of spray she usually puts in, and the red dye is fading out. 

“I brought you something, love,” she whispers, and reaches into the pocket of her coat. She pulls out a small package wrapped in brown paper, and hands it to you. Inside is a small black box, like the one your brother had kept hidden deep in a kitchen cupboard before proposing to his girlfriend. You freeze, and Patsy gently takes it from you. Her hands are steady now. 

She opens it, and inside is the loveliest ring you’ve ever seen. It’s delicate, with a small diamond and two smaller red stones on either side. 

“It was my mother’s,” she whispers. “I hid it for three years, all through the camps, in the hem of my dress. I can’t 一 we can’t have a wedding. But I can promise you everything a wedding means. Forever.” 

She slides it onto your finger, and you can hardly speak. 

/ 

You can only wear the ring for a night. 

Patsy had bought you a chain as well, and she clasps it around your neck the next morning, before she sneaks out and into the room she still shares. 

“Wherever we go next, we’ll be together,” she promises, and you kiss her in the doorway as she leaves the room. It’s too early for anyone else to be up, and you watch her as she crosses the landing. She turns, and smiles at you as she carefully opens her bedroom door, and you think you could never go anywhere ever again and be perfectly happy. 

**Author's Note:**

> as always , comments are greatly appreciated :))


End file.
